Reciprocate
by prophet-of-troy
Summary: He swore he wasn't going to get swept up in his charm again. One can't fake their own death and just come back as though it never happened. But Sherlock could.


He'd told himself that he wasn't going to do this again. He wasn't going to follow him around like he had before, wasn't going to forgive him and be his pet doctor. He wasn't going to upturn the life that he'd made for himself in the wake of Sherlock's death. But after Sherlock's rude interruption of John's proposal, he found himself sucked back into the game. He'd seen Sherlock through his disguise, but thought that it was just his subconscious hating him and supplying Sherlock's face in a moment that John felt he was betraying his memory. Somewhere deep inside, anytime he was with Mary, he thought that. And Mary knew. How could she not? A woman knows when the man she loves is thinking of someone else, and the night after they and Sherlock went their separate ways, she confronted him about it.

"I understand," she told him. "I really do. Maybe I didn't before, because well, your stories really didn't do him any justice, but I see why you loved him. Why you still do."

When she said that, however true her words, a part of him panicked. A part of him reared at not being able to forget Sherlock. Hadn't he deserved to? After all, it wasn't Mrs. Hudson who watched him fall to his death. It was John. It wasn't Molly who visited his grave everyday for the first three months and at least once a week there after. It was John. It wasn't Detective Lestrade who had to retrieve his things from 221 B, only to be too assaulted by the memories that he couldn't make it past the kitchen. It was John.

"It's okay," Mary told him. "I like him, I do, but it wouldn't be right for us to stay together now. When he was dead, it was different, but he isn't. It wouldn't be fair to you or to me to keep this going."

"I'm sorry," he heard himself tell her, feeling guiltier than he could ever remember feeling.

"Don't be," she said. "Just, remember to keep in touch, yeah? Don't just drop off the face of the planet."

So he hugged her and he kissed her cheek and he snuck into 221 B while Sherlock was out doing whatever it was he did. All of his old things were still there, as well as all of his flatmate's. He fell asleep in his bed on top of the covers, not bothering to get undressed for bed, and when she slipped out the next morning to go to work, Sherlock was either already gone or hadn't come home.

Home. He'd missed it, and in his mind without even acknowledging that he was doing it, he promised that he would never call another place that again.

Despite his talk with Mary, their ending things, and his telling himself that he wouldn't do this again, he found himself with Sherlock and walking into the abandoned train car that they found was actually a bomb. He really wished that he'd called Lestrade. He really wished that he'd lived his life with Sherlock differently if he was to die like this. In all honesty, this wasn't how he'd expected things to end. In combat, perhaps, the few times he'd allowed himself to contemplate his eventual death. Or maybe he would die in his sleep an old man. But he hadn't considered a bomb. In hindsight, he should have.

"Go, John," his friend told him, indicating with his left arm. "Go now."

"There's no point now, is there," John said, not bothering to tell him that he'd never leave without him. "Because there's not enough time to get away and if we don't do this, other people will die."

But even with Sherlock's "mind palace" he came up with nothing to defuse a bomb. Instead, came a broken toned voice that John had never heard from the other man and never had the desire to hear. "I'm sorry. I can't... I can't, John. I don't know how."

"What?" John asked, startled.

"Forgive me," he said. "Please, forgive me for all the hurt I caused you."

John understood. "No. No, no, no, no, no, this is a trick."

"No."

"Another one of your bloody trick."

"No," Sherlock denied again.

How does one forgive the person they're in love with for faking their death for two years?How does one contain such a spark as Sherlock, where does one even start? But he was looking at John with a pleading that John had never seen on him, a pleading that looked wrong on him. It didn't suit.

John paced his half of the train car, feeling a heat in his face. He stomped his foot, turning around and gripping the bar of the car tightly.

"I wanted you not to be dead," he told Sherlock, remembering his small speech over two years prior- standing at Sherlock's fresh headstone.

"Yeah, well," the other man said, pulling himself up and sliding into one of the seats. "Be careful what you wish for. If I hadn't come back, you wouldn't be standing there and, you'd still have a future with Mary."

"Yeah, I know," John said, only then realizing he hadn't told him that they'd broken things off. "I, damn it, Sherlock, I was coping! Maybe I wasn't over it, but I was trying. I was going out on dates, and drinks with Lestrade and Anderson."

"I- Anderson? You had drinks with Anderson?" Sherlock asked incredulously, looking as though the idea disgusted him totally.

John shook his head, lightly punching the same pole with his fist. "I was trying to forget about you," he said quietly. "I loved you."

Sherlock stopped at this admission, as though the words themselves didn't surprise him but the fact that John was saying them did.

"I know," he said back just as quietly. "I always knew."

"Goddamnit," John cursed, "then why didn't you say anything? Why not have given me just a single word to say that you were alright? Why not the slightest hint that you were alive? Did it occur to you that I could have helped you with whatever it was you were doing?"

"I thought it was protecting you," Sherlock admitted weakly.

"Do you have any idea how it felt, seeing you on top of the hospital and poised to jump? Or any idea how angry and thrilled and euphoric and absolutely seething I was when you show up again just when I thought I could move on?"

"I'm sorry."

John nodded. And then shook his head. "I'm not. I'm glad. The one thing I wanted, the last miracle I asked of you was that you weren't dead. And you're not. Of course, I forgive you."

Sherlock stood up and took a few steps towards John. "I promise, the next time I fake my death I'll take you with me."

"Yeah, well, there's not going to _be_ a next time, is there," John asked bitterly.

Sherlock chuckled, a snicker that turned into a hearty laugh. John looked over at the clock that was still stuck on the same time it had been on the last time he looked, where there should only have been a few seconds. And he groaned.

"I knew it! It was a trick."

"There was an off switch," Sherlock grinned. "There's always an off switch."

John shook his head, thinking about how serious the situation had been and how terrified he was, and joined Sherlock in laughing at himself. "Well, I hope you're happy. I'm leaving."

John laughed at himself, at his doubt, but felt humiliated. He'd told Sherlock, what he'd vowed to never say aloud. Even when Mary confronted him, he hadn't technically admitted it, but Sherlock only needed a few minutes of high stakes to get him to say it. Now Sherlock knew he loved him, _had_ loved him from the moment Sherlock asked him "Afghanistan or Iraq?" and John couldn't even look at him.

"I reciprocate," Sherlock said when John moved to leave the train car. "Your earlier expressed sentiments? Always have."

John didn't say anything, but left to go home with a new smile on his face.

Sherlock reciprocated.

 **A/N: I love Johnlock, and honestly can't understand why anyone would not ship them. They are my only Sherlock ship, except for maybe Molly and Lestrade. Idk why I like them, I just do. But Johnlock. Jeez. Let me know what you think of my quick one shot. I'm almost done with the next chapter of Afterglow.**

 **Dasvidanya, Mia.**


End file.
